


The heart mark

by amarmeme



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Banter, Crime Novelist Varric, F/M, The Hanged Man (Dragon Age), Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:34:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27480526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarmeme/pseuds/amarmeme
Relationships: Cassandra Pentaghast/Varric Tethras
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21
Collections: 2020 A Paragon of Their Kind Dragon Age Dwarf Exchange





	The heart mark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ziskandra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziskandra/gifts).



_He’s pulled by a small flicker in the alley, a signal that winks at him in tune with a sputtering streetlight. Greaves hesitates for the briefest moment, so fleeting he doesn’t even register it, before giving in to what’s ingrained deep. It's an addiction; he’s as desperate for answers as any junky for their choice drug. The beat of his pulse is a sweet rush. Cautiously, because even the high can't override years of practice, Greaves presses in, a litter of glass crunching beneath his boots. With a jolt of bitter recognition, he stops in his tracks. Greaves has stumbled on a crime scene._

_A man’s body slumps against the wall, pressed upright between the bar’s dumpster and a stack of empty, upturned crates. Blood pools down the victim’s face and onto his chest. A handful of crystalline shards embedded in the scalp are the source of the beacon, shining like rubies. The victim looks fit, healthy other than the gaping head wound, and altogether too well dressed to be regular street trash. Greaves moves closer, sits on his haunches and takes a pen out of his jacket pocket. He uses the tip of it to pull down the collar of the dead man’s shirt. A red, flaming sword is inked on the victim’s chest. Its sickly red flames are as vibrant as the river of blood, both bursts of color obscenely lush in comparison to the victim’s parchment-white pallor. Greaves swears under his breath, pocketing the pen and cursing his luck for stumbling on a dead Knight Templar in the middle of his fucking vacation._

_The city of Kirkwall never rests, so Greaves doesn’t either_. 

The Ravaging Red, CH 9

\----

 _It was just like his book._

As Cassandra approached the victim’s body, her immediate thought was of Marris Hethric’s bestseller _The Ravaging Red_. The scene before her was so perfectly in line with that of Detective Mark Greaves’ story that at first, she’d stopped in her tracks as her partner kept walking towards the victim. She snapped herself out of it quickly, chastising her imagination. Surely it was a coincidence -- many low-lifes died in Kirkwall alleyways. 

Then she saw his face, or what was left of it. The victim’s body was wedged between the dumpster and a few empty keg barrels, a film of sticky, coagulating blood covering half of him. Spatters of his blood had splashed against the brick wall, the kegs and the dumpster filled with something rancid. Perhaps something had died inside the dumpster too. Cassandra stepped closer, covering her face with the back of her arm, burying her nose in the sleeve of her blazer. It was a gruesome sight. A gaping hole at the victim’s left temple was the source of all the mess. The spot was covered in shiny, reflective dust and a few larger pieces of what seemed to be red lyrium crystal were wedged into skin and shattered bone. Her partner shook her head, mass of red hair threatening to fall from its confine as she vehemently disagreed with the disgusting scene that had happened outside their bar while they celebrated her promotion. All Cassandra knew was that this was too close to fiction to be a coincidence. 

“Captain,” she said. “Do you read the Kirkwall Crime novels?” 

Vallen looked over and gave Cassandra a tight expression, about to argue that she wasn’t Captain _yet._ Still, Cassandra was going to give the woman her due. She’d earned the title after all the last captain had done. 

“If you’re suggesting this is some elaborate set-up to match one of that hack’s pulp pieces, I’m going to have to pretend I didn’t hear that.” Vallen crouched in front of the body, pulling a latex glove from her back pocket. It should have been surprising, but Vallen was thorough. Of course she would carry gloves on her at all times. “There’s enough happening on these streets. We don’t need a killer bent on making a target of one of Kirkwall’s darlings.” 

“Kirkwall’s darlings?” Cassandra asked. 

She was still relatively new to town -- did Marris Hethric actually live in Kirkwall? She assumed he’d been here once and found it to be so repulsive, repugnant and alive that it deserved its own crime serial. She always pictured him living in one of the more pleasant coastal cities, drafting his books in front of a great bay window overlooking the sea. 

“Does Marris Hethric actually _live_ in Kirkwall?”

“He does. And owns this bar too.” There was a tone of amusement in her partner’s voice. Vallen swiveled around, broken glass and lyrium dust crunching under her heel as she still crouched. Cassandra looked up, stupidly, as if the name of the bar was plastered in the alleyway. It wasn’t. “The Hanged Man,” Vallen added for clarification. “You have a pen?” 

Cassandra paused. It was just like one of his books. Eerily so. “Yes,” she said, and plucked it out of her breast pocket. She handed it to her soon-to-be boss. 

Valen pulled down the victim’s white undershirt with the tip of the pen. Cassandra’s mouth went dry at the sight of the Knight Templar tattoo. This was too real, too _unreal._ What even was reality? Cassandra didn’t understand how this could be happening. She had to find the author and see if he had any idea why someone would be recreating his crime scene. Because it _was_ his scene. Cassandra expected Detective Greaves to roll around the corner any minute.

Meanwhile, Vallen humphed, revealing another tattoo on the man's body -- a heart mark. Apparently the victim had a destined soulmate. “Poor Sheila VanDannon,” Vallen said, reading the mark. 

Cassandra wondered if this Sheila had even met her soulmate yet. Now he was dead. Cassandra hoped the same could not be said for the man whose name was written across her chest like a promise. She’d never found him.

Vallen stood up quickly, shedding her glove and tossing it into the dumpster. She handed Cassandra back her pen, and walked a few feet away, gesturing her partner to follow. At the corner, they stopped. Vallen leaned in. “I'm going to call this one in. You go visit the author, then I'll talk to Sheila.”

“Do you know where Mr. Hethric lives?” Cassandra asked.

Vallen sighed, then pointed up to the top floors of the bar. “We're standing in his alley.” 

Cassandra frowned, acid in her voice. “Do you mean to say this re-creation happened just under his window? That is highly suspicious.” She wrinkled her nose. “What kind of best selling author lives above a bar?

“I don’t disagree.” Vallen said. “Apparently he gets inspiration close to home.” She paused, then corrected herself. “Or so I've heard.”

Cassandra didn’t remark on the pause, but it weighed heavily between them. While she was still new to the city, new to this partnership, she could sort out a subtle lie. Rather than press how Vallen knew so much about the author, Cassandra grunted noncommittally and headed to the front of the bar where the staircase to the upstairs residence could be found. She'd check on Mr. Hethric and worry about his connections to the police department later. 

+++

The door to the author’s upstairs apartment was nondescript; unfascinating in its solid presence. Cassandra didn’t enjoy standing in the cramped, dark staircase, but hesitated to knock. Marris Hethric wasn’t one of her heroes _exactly_ , but she did favor his books over most other pulp detective novels. He’d been able to describe the job far better than any other novelist had. Given Vallen’s odd remarks on the dwarf, perhaps there was a reason why he could depict so well what ran through her own mind. 

With an unexplainable shudder that rolled down her spine, Cassandra knocked firmly against the old door. A few beats passed before she heard the tell-tale shuffling of feet and the workings of a lock. The door swung inward and she took an instinctive step back, her shoulders pressed against the wall of the landing. 

Her mouth went dry at the sight of Hethric. His golden hair was held back from his broad face and his shirt was open wide enough for her to spy a swath of chest hair. She’d seen his picture before on the back of his novels, surrounded by adoring dwarven maidens, but never imagined the virility bleeding off the page could be so _real._

“Another fan?” he asked, raising a smart eyebrow and studying her surprised expression. 

Cassandra frowned in response, remembering herself and why she was at the dwarf’s residence in the first place. She came forward, flipping open her badge with one hand. Hethric’s eyes widened, briefly, but the smile of satisfaction remained unchanged. And well, perhaps he was used to detectives at his doorstep. 

“I’m Detective Pentaghast,” she said, placing the badge back in her pocket. This caused his smile to falter, with a hesitant twitch of the lips and a subtle narrowing of the eyes. Cassandra groaned inwardly. Of course he knew about her family. 

“Are you Marris Hethric?” She felt silly asking, both of them knew, but it was a formality. One shouldn’t take anything as fact without confirmation first. 

“I go by that name,” he replied. 

Cassandra could feel her brows furrow without her accord. That kind of slippery response annoyed her to no end. “Do you have other names I should be aware of, Mr. Hethric?” 

He looked down the stairwell and back to her face, smirking now, portraying far more amusement than she felt the exchange was owed. What was it about famous people that made them feel above the law? There was a dead man outside in his alley. Didn’t the seriousness in her tone convey the situation wasn’t a social visit? She doubted the man had ever faced real hardship once in his pampered life. 

“Hethric’s a pen name,” he said at last. “Keeps the fans separate. My real name is,” he paused for effect for some reason, then lowered his tone, “Varric Tethras.” 

_What?_

Blood rushed to her head and Cassandra could only hear her own heartbeat, pulsing so quickly she thought she might need to sit. She choked on her immediate thought, that this man was a liar and somehow _knew._ He had to be playing a trick on her. Perhaps Vallen had said something to this man -- she’d seen Cassandra’s heart mark. She was the only one in Kirkwall who had. But Cassandra couldn’t imagine Vallen playing any practical jokes. Which meant the most likely conclusion was also the most absurd. Cassandra Pentaghast had ran into her soulmate at a crime scene. 

+++

Marris’ -- _no, Varric’s_ \-- couch was comfortable enough for Cassandra to sink in and relax while her pulse lowered. She’d never admit she came close to feeling faint out on his doorstep, but the dwarf had dragged her in by the elbow and placed her in his living room at the first sign of weakness in the knees. 

She felt the fool. If this was her soulmate, then he knew it as well. Somewhere hidden behind his scant shirt there was _Cassandra Pentaghast_ written in her own hand. Part of her wanted to peel back the material and lay eyes on it, just to be certain this wasn’t a rare occasion where a heart mark had gotten it entirely wrong. 

Shaking her head, Cassandra got to her feet. This was not the reason she was at his apartment. Regardless of their supposed love connection, a dead man still rested in the alley. Crime Scene would be on their way by now. She had to ask him what he knew. 

Varric returned from his kitchen with a glass of water, shaking his head in disapproval at her standing. 

“You should really sit back down,” he admonished. 

“No,” she cleared her throat. “I think you should sit, Mr. Tethras.” Cassandra pointed to where she’d been moments before. “I didn’t come for any of ... _this_.” She gestured wildly at the couch, as if the scene there had been scandalous or personal in any way. “Regardless of our -- _ugh_ ,” she groaned, deigned to mention it. “ _Regardless,_ there is a dead gang member in your alley, killed precisely like one of the victims in your novel The Ravaging Red."

The dwarf sat hard, all the joviality pushed out by force.

“Well, shit.” 

He took a long drink of the water still in his hand. She watched the line of his throat until she realized how absurd that was. Cassandra glanced away, cheeks threatening to flush. The sound of the glass being set against the side table brought her focus back to the dwarf. Annoyingly, he studied her frame, gaze scanning the length of her with some interest. She ignored it. 

“Do you know anyone who might have been interested in recreating one of your scenes? Any enemies or rabid fans of Marris Hethric?” Her tone curdled around the shape of his pen name. It felt like a lie now, though she knew he’d done nothing untoward in stating the fact of his identity. Cassandra simply detested being off balance. 

“Fans? Murdering someone’s kind of a twisted sense of admiration, detective.”

“So you believe someone dislikes you instead?”

Varric threw up his hands in a self-defensive manner. “I don't know why anyone would do something like this. Well, that’s not entirely true.” 

“What do you mean, Mr. Tethras?”

The smirk returned, and he gestured at a nearby bookshelf, filled to the brim with his own novels. _Vain_ , she thought. Her soulmate thought very highly of his craft. Though, she had to admit his novels were addictive. She’d spent more than a few nights burning the midnight oil in order to finish just the next chapter, and the next after that. Especially the novels where Detective Greaves met his heart mark in Mina Pelegrin. 

Irritated by her own fancy, Cassandra took a guess at his meaning. “Are you suggesting you understand what drives someone to kill?” 

“The best-seller list doesn’t lie, detective.”

Rolling her eyes was an automatic response. Flipping open a pad of paper was a learned one. Cassandra took out her pen and clicked the back harder than necessary. This interview was going to take considerably more time than she liked. 

“And what do the best-seller lists say about where you were this evening? Home? Alone?”

Varric Tethras gulped at that inquiry.

+++

“You knew, didn’t you?” 

Vallen leaned against the edge of her desk, savoring a cup of coffee. Steam curled over the edge of the styrofoam and she blew it before taking a tentative sip. Cassandra felt the impatience bubble under her skin — Vallen was icing her. 

Vallen sighed with pleasure at the caffeine, then fixed Cassandra with a look of humor. “If you’re asking if I knew his real name, I didn’t become Captain for no reason.”

Cassandra huffed. Vallen was going to have her spell it out, which despite the relief discussing the situation might produce, she was still too unnerved to do it with any composure. 

“The _mark_ ,” she hissed. “That’s why you sent me up there to interview him.”

The dead-eyed stare of Captain Vallen was a sight to behold. Criminals shriveled under her gaze. Cassandra even felt a bit of regret in the framing of her question, heckles still raised by the Marris-Varric situation. Vallen sipped her coffee again, then sat back against her desk. Most of her items were boxed away for the impending move to her new office down the hall. 

“If I told you outright, you still would have wanted to go up there.”

“I would have been better prepared.”

Vallen smirked knowingly. “The outcome would have been the same, either way. I didn’t want to steal that from you. I know you’re a secret romantic.”

The situation was far from romantic. So what if her heart fluttered at grand professions of love, or wildly idealized poetry? That didn’t mean Cassandra walked about with doe eyes at the world. In fact, most people who did not know her would depict her as ice cold, or something similarly unflattering. She was due the information as a detective, as a partner. She sniped at Vallen. 

“Only as much as you are.” 

Over two more cups of coffee, the partners established a few details about the crime. Sheila VanDannon did know the victim, intimately, which she described in detail that made Vallen’s ears burn. Apparently she and Roger Grews were highschool sweethearts, and he’d joined the Knight Templar shortly after graduating to support them. She swore he only slung the red, that he wasn’t high up enough to catch notice. Sheila said he was smart (Cassandra held in an exasperated groan at that bit of the retelling) and no one she knew of would want him dead. Cassandra determined that Hethric, or Tethras, had been in his bar for most of the day, and that the dwarf was either genuinely surprised by the turn of events or a fantastic liar. His employees had confirmed he’d been down in his favorite corner for most of the day, typing away like mad on his laptop, and only heading upstairs shortly before Cassandra had arrived. Somehow she and Vallen had missed him when they’d celebrated Vallen’s promotion. It was the one piece that didn’t fit. Surely she would have noticed someone like him. 

Vallen shuffled her new case file, straightening the papers until perfectly ordered. “I’d better take it from here, don't you think?”

“What?” Cassandra sputtered her coffee. “You can’t mean to shut me out of this case?”

“That’s exactly what I mean to do.” Vallen pointed to Cassandra’s chest, where the name of their best lead burned a hole into her heart. “That’s a complication even you can’t deny is a conflict.”

Stubbornness flooded her veins. “These things aren’t scientific. It doesn’t always pan out as you’d suspect.”

Vallen crossed her arms and leaned back in her swivel chair. As much as Cassandra wanted to strangle her partner now, she would miss the ease they shared. She could tell exactly what Vallen was thinking, and she was certain the same could be applied otherwise. To suggest Cassandra couldn’t keep work and supposed romance separate was absurd. Beyond absurd. It was insulting. 

“What if I want it to pan out for you?” Vallen sighed and scrubbed her face. “You’ve had a surprise today, sure, but you and I both know Hethric isn’t dumb enough to play out one of his own books in the alleyway. Beyond this case, you could get to know him. At least you have that chance.”

She could read between the lines. Vallen was admitting something she’d never cared to hint at before. Despite everyone having a heart’s mark, it was deeply personal. You didn’t bare your soul to just anyone. 

“You know yours,” Cassandra said sadly. 

Vallen touched her chest, fingers lingering on the spot. “Yes, but it can’t happen. Certainly not with my promotion. I sealed our fate.”

Was it another detective? A police officer? Cassandra couldn’t, wouldn’t dare ask. But the weight of Vallen’s words sat heavy on her own shoulders. Should she step away from the case for the interest of what could be? What was supposedly hers to grasp? 

“I -- can’t sit aside,” she replied after a long moment’s consideration. “Don’t pull me off.”

Vallen sighed, then sat up abruptly, opening the case file again. “This is against my better judgement, but I’m not Captain yet.”

+++

“I’d be a great consultant,” Varric insisted. Cassandra had stopped by for a few follow-up questions and he’d launched into a campaign to assist her with the case. “I’ve delved into my share of true crime stories, and I’m an excellent judge of character. Characteristic of the trade.”

“Being a detective,” she growled, “I already have real life experience.”

“Ah, but this is a crime with flair. You don’t look like you do flair.”

She swallowed that remark bitterly, but headed toward the door. Somehow he’d gotten her inside again, which she shouldn’t have allowed. Not with that fully-at-home look with his open shirt and megawatt smirk. He must have realized the error in his insult, because by the time she’d reached the door handle, he’d swung back in front of her. His solidness, placed between her and the exit, should have set her teeth on edge. There was something about the dwarf though that made her sweat, just a little, underneath her jacket. Heat rose between them as he stared intently for a reaction, as if he was pushing her, goading her into a response. 

With a huff, she swiped a finger beneath her collar. He watched the path with curious eyes and looked back up as she shifted her feet. 

“Get out of my way,” she barked. 

“You know I didn’t do this,” he said. “If you let me come along, we’ll solve it faster and you can get me out of your hair. We don't have to see each other again.”

A sinking feeling entered her gut. If Varric was her soulmate, then why would he assume she wanted to be rid of him as quickly as possible? He did irritate her, by the very fact of existing and seeming so unimpressed by her (because shouldn’t this be much more romantic?). It wasn’t the first time she considered if another name was spelled across that broad chest. Perhaps Cassandra had an ill-fated one-way match. She licked her dry lips and tried to think of a round-about way of asking that related to this case. 

Varric solved the conundrum for her. “That’s not the problem is it? The problem is you want to see me, but can’t make sense of your job and this at the same time.” He pulled aside the v of his shirt to reveal the neat penmanship of her own hand. Cassandra gasped, although it wasn’t all that shocking considering. 

“I--”

“Were expecting roses? Candlelit poetry readings?”

She wrinkled her nose and despite herself, yanked back his shirt to cover the heart mark. “No, you ass. I expected more than,” she faked his plain Kirkwall accent, “‘let’s get this over with.’”

“You weren’t exactly fawning over me last night, detective.”

Her voice rose to an unspeakable level. “There was a murder!”

His laugh, deep and resonant, filled her chest with mixed emotion. Annoyance, impatience and a rustling of desire. That sound felt good, like the way stirring music gets into your heart and makes you hum along. She could wrap herself up in a laugh like that, and part of her yearned to let it happen, but there _was a murder._ She couldn’t let that slide, no matter how intrigued she was by this dwarf. 

Perhaps there was middle ground. 

“Fine,” she replied with as much disdain as she could muster. “You can join me for this case.”

+++

Cassandra welcomed Varric into her car after the needling in the apartment. Thankfully, he didn’t bring along a laptop as she feared he might do. If he was taking notes, they were mental ones. She pulled up to a known Knight Templar hangout, a dilapidated building people called the gallows. The air surrounding the place was depressing, the sun long blotted out by billboards above the roof that advertised criminal defense attorneys. She was about to tell him to stay in the car, when he came around and opened her door. 

“ _My lady,_ ” he exaggerated. 

She rolled her eyes to the point of headache and got out, checking her gun out of habit. “Stay behind me.”

“No argument here. You’re the brawn.”

“And that makes you the brain?”

He chuckled, gesturing forward as if to let her gallantly pass. “You said it, detective.”

She grumbled, pushing past to the metal door. Her knuckles rapped against the cool surface. She waited a minute before trying again, feeling no surprise that the effort was fruitless. No doubt someone inside was monitoring who was knocking. That’s what she was hoping for. 

Cassandra turned back, walking past Varric again. He followed close behind her, framing his next sarcastic question with his hands in the air. She could feel him gesticulating back there, winding up for a doozy. He waited until they got back in the car at least to lay it out. 

“That’s it? Just walk up to the door and knock? What is this, granny's house? Were you expecting tea?” 

She smiled serenely. “It is about subtly, Varric. Did you expect me to bust in the door? Flair doesn’t _solve_ cases.” 

“Neither does sitting in your car outside a hideout.”

Driving away from the curb, Cassandra got a kick out of knowing something he did not. It was a trick of her trade, a tidbit she was willing to share as long as it didn’t get inserted into his next novel. She told him as much as they hit the main highway along the coast. 

“My informant will meet me at Wounded Park.”

“That’s not ominous,” he remarked. 

“It is where we meet.” Cassandra shrugged. “Far enough outside the city that the Knight Templar don’t bother. Other ruffians, sure. But it is perfect for a quick conversation.”

The park lights had turned on by the time her informant arrived. He wore a hoodie as per usual, covering his curly blonde hair, which usually made him fairly distinguishable. Cassandra knew Cullen wanted out of the Knight Templar, and was trying to find an avenue that would keep him from getting killed. She didn’t have an open for him yet, but promised she’d repay him in kind if he kept helping her with information as needed. 

He sat next to her on the bench, and with a rush of dismay, asked, “Who in the hell is that?”

Varric sat at the other end, watching the waves uneasily. He turned at Cullen’s remark and offered in the least amount of charm possible, his pen name. 

“Well, he’s helping with this case,” she explained. “And for good reason too.” 

Cassandra kept the story quick, focusing in on the details of the murder and how it connected to Varric, and letting him know they’d talked with Roger's girlfriend. Cullen’s face went from angry to impassive, to somewhat resigned. He sighed deeply and covered his face with his hands before shaking his head. 

“I knew Roger,” he said. “He was one of mine, was a good seller. He wanted out, but I don’t think -- that’s not all that happened here.”

“And,” Cassandra pressed. “What happened?”

“He’s got a friend that you don’t know about.” Cullen gestured at Varric with an upturned chin. “She’s been poking around. I think it's a message to her and her accomplice to stay out of what’s not their business.” 

“You’re not talking about Hawke,” Varric warned. 

“Of course I am,” Cullen deadpanned. He rubbed the back of his neck under his hoodie and stood up. “Detective Pentaghast, always a pleasure.” He disappeared into the dark of the park as quickly as he had arrived. 

Cassandra faced her new-found partner head on. “Who is Hawke and why am I finding out about her from my informant?” 

Varric had the decency to look somewhat ashamed. He leaned back against the bench and thrust his legs out, crossing them at the ankles. The dark was comforting to Cassandra, though she knew not everyone would share that sentiment. It just seemed that secrets were safer in the dark. 

“Hawke’s a close friend of mine. She’s a private investigator and she’s been working a Knight Templar case for a while.” 

“And you didn’t think to mention that the first time I asked you for connections?"

Heat rose under her collar again, though this time it was for entirely different reasons. She could have strangled the dwarf. There were no witnesses. 

“Of course I thought of it.”

“You are insufferable. What a waste of my time, and yours!” Cassandra shot to her feet. “To think I believed after this we--” she stopped herself short. Anger had its way of making her entirely too honest. 

He looked up, sharp as a knife. “After this we _what_? What did you think would happen after this, Cassandra?” 

“It hardly matters now,” she shot back. “I don’t condone liars. Get up, I’m taking you down to the station for an official statement. Then I’ll be directing my partner to pick up this friend of yours.”

+++

The wait at the station was unbearable. Vallen had left with a knowing look, one that Cassandra knew she’d not escape from for long. Damn that woman and her looks! Of course she was right, Cassandra should not have followed up with Varric again, should not have spent any time with him alone while the case was still open. But wasn’t it better to know up front that he was a liar? Wasn’t she avoiding all kinds of heartbreak by learning this before attempting any sort of wooing? Though who was she kidding? He clearly was not interested in wooing of any kind. She’d taken his phone away as soon as they’d gotten in the car, worried he’d tip off his friend to bail town. The incredulous glare she’d received was one for the books; not even perps dared give her such a hateful assessment. 

It wasn’t long before Vallen showed up with Hawke, who was chipper and bright for midnight at a police station. Her dark hair contrasted her bright blue eyes and pale skin -- a Fereldan if Cassandra had to guess. 

“Okay,” Vallen said, bringing Hawke over to join Cassandra and Varric at her desk. “Let’s clear the air. Cassandra, I know Hawke. We’re,” she gritted her teeth a little as if embarrassed to admit it, “old friends. And I definitely know him.” She waved a thumb toward Varric’s direction. “These two are always _getting into what they should be handing over to the police_.” This statement was directed at Hawke, who shrugged nonchalantly. “Anyway, Hawke and I spoke. She knows exactly who did this.”

“Meredith Stannard. Or she called it in. Roger was just an unlucky fool who'd crossed someone at some point. Probably was making to get out.”

Cassandra pinched her nose. “You are telling me that the head of the gang called in a hit on one of her own to send you a message?”

“More or less,” Hawke said. “I’ve been working a case against her pretty hard with a former seller named Samson, and this means we are getting somewhere.” She grinned, her eye teeth sharp and white. “I don’t know which one pulled the short stick, but Stannard is letting me know that she can get close too. But I’m not worried about Varric.” 

“Oh?” Cassandra raised her brows. Such a good friend this Hawke was. 

“Nah, she’s not going to kill a famous person. Too much attention. She just wants me to know that she’s aware of what I am up to.”

“Are you -- certain we don’t need to put a protective detail on Mr. Tethras?” 

Hawke laughed, and it didn’t fill her with wholeness like Varric’s laugh had. Cassandra tried to forget about that part. She was still furious with his lies. 

“If I say yes, will that mean he’ll get you to himself? I know he’d love--”

“Hawke, shut it,” Varric said. 

Cassandra eyed them suspiciously. Whatever was happening here was something she no longer needed to be part of. Vallen seemed to be saying the same thing with her eyes, which flashed between Cassandra and the door. She got up, smoothed out her pants and announced that she was headed home. These old friends could sort out the paperwork. 

“We’ll talk next steps,” Vallen promised. 

Cassandra turned out without giving Varric a second glance. 

+++

It turned out that Hawke may have had a promising lead on taking Stannard down, but that fell outside of Homicide’s remit. She’d have to partner with someone from Major Crimes, which Vallen insisted on given the way things were progressing to outright murder. All in all, the case was squared away, another homicide solved, another case closed unsatisfactorily. Cassandra didn’t regret her insistence on following through with Varric, and she still felt right about trusting her gut. She did regret that the mystery of Varric Tethras was gone. No longer could she wonder who was supposed to hold her heart. Nor could she imagine all the romantic things he’d so easily scorned. 

One of the real downsides was losing a bar so close to the precinct. The Hanged Man held zero appeal for Cassandra, lest she run into its slippery owner. But Vallen insisted they make it over there on the last night of their partnership. The place was their place, she insisted, despite who owned it. Cassandra was irritated, but gave in, despite her best disgusted groans to sway Vallen otherwise. 

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Vallen inquired as they walked over. 

That was easy to conjure. “Varric comes down with another woman on his arm to spite me.” 

Vallen laughed. “Don’t let his author photo fool you. I have never, in my ten years of knowing him, seen Varric with a woman on his arm. If he’s out there, he’s subtle about it.” 

Cassandra grumbled something about his distaste for subtlety, but was woefully ignored. Vallen pushed in the door of the Hanged Man and found quite a crowd ready to greet her. Members of the department who were off duty held up their beers, and several uniformed officers Cassandra didn’t know cheered alongside them. One uniformed officer in particular smiled broadly as Vallen entered, and in an instant, Cassandra knew whose name was written across his chest. 

“Did you know? Because I didn’t.” 

“No,” Vallen smiled, close to tearing up. “But I bet they figured you would have told me somehow." 

_They’re probably right,_ Cassandra thought, clapping Vallen on the back. She was happy for her friend, for her captain. She only wished that somehow things would work out for her and -- she squinted at his name -- officer Hendyr over there. Somehow it had to turn out better for Vallen than it did for Cassandra. 

Vallen joined the fray, welcoming a fresh pint and grinning like a fool with her squad. Something kept Cassandra back, lingering near the bar, unsure if she should stay or go. Not that she too didn’t want to celebrate, but the idea of Varric coming downstairs twisted her insides. A week had passed and the disappointment was still bitter. She’d been duped, had, fooled, hoodwinked. All the old-timey words that meant she was an idiot. Cassandra wasn’t sure time could erase that. 

“Whatever she wants, on the house,” came a familiar voice behind. Varric sidled up next to Cassandra at the bar, raising his hands in a placating way. “I’ll get out of your way if you want.”

Was that what she wanted, really? Here he was, as she had feared, though no woman at his side. Her chest didn’t burn with embarrassment, but rather misplaced hope. She’d wanted it to work out. She’d wanted her romance, despite how silly and unlikely that was to happen in the real world. There were so many burning questions that crossed her mind. If he was her soulmate, why did he not try to convince her to stay at the police station that night? Why had he insisted on joining her when he knew there was a personal connection between him and the case? 

She settled on the easiest question. “Why did you lie?” 

He shook his head and chuckled. “You always cut right to it, detective.” Cassandra simply glared, not willing to suffer any insults. “Hawke’s a good friend and I wasn’t sure this had anything to do with her. I’d hoped not. But I didn’t want her hard work being handed over to the police just because things got heated. So, I didn’t mention it.” 

She let the information settle for a moment, sorting it out against her own moral compass. “You were protecting your friend’s interests?”

“Yeah, look, detective -- I fucked up whatever thing we had going.”

It was Cassandra’s turn to laugh. “What thing? We couldn’t stop bickering.” 

Varric licked his lips and studied her face. Tension filled the space between them and Cassandra couldn’t help but watch his expression change by degrees, the way a small crinkle in his cheek became prominent as he smirked. The damn spot under her collar felt hot again, stupidly, in the few moments of intense study. She huffed and looked away, feeling color rise to her cheeks. 

“You can’t tell me,” he said gruffly, “that you don’t feel that too.” 

“So what,” she replied, fanning herself with a hand as she examined the squad in the corner. “You still pulled one over on me.”

“I’d do it again for a friend like Hawke, but Cassandra, I don’t have any other reason to lie to you. The case is out of your hands.” 

It was true, the case was out of her hands. There no longer was a conflict between them. The only thing that stood in her way was her own pesky code of conduct. It was strict, which kept her safe. Usually. 

"What if something like this happens again?" 

"I sure hope this shit doesn't happen again." 

Cassandra pressed on. “And how do I know you won’t lie to me again when it is convenient?”

“How do any of us know? Look, I’m here to apologize. That’s gotta count for something right?”

She sighed, a deep, bone-weary sigh. Cassandra didn’t want to fight over this any longer. She was tough at work, couldn’t she be soft otherwise? Just once? There was something between them, that much was undeniable. And she wasn’t signing up for forever, just a parlay. 

Against her better judgment, she thrust out her hand. “This apology counts for exactly one drink,” she said firmly. Varric took her hand, shaking it with a bit of mirth on his lips. “Anything after that is up to how well you do.”

“I’d take that bet," he replied with a wink. 

“Ugh,” Cassandra groaned, secretly loving it. 


End file.
